


your hands were warm (though you came in from the cold)

by didnt



Series: ordinary names [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, it also made no sense in the first draft which is why we edit things, written over the course of a few days but that's fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29222331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/didnt/pseuds/didnt
Summary: It’s raining when George arrives at Dream’s apartment building and he’s soaked to the bone. It feels a lot like coming home.Or, George and Dream are roommates and somewhere down the line things got messed up.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: ordinary names [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2184870
Comments: 142
Kudos: 773
Collections: Oneshot/Twoshot Goodness, lewi's fav





	your hands were warm (though you came in from the cold)

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this when i was listening to nicola sturgeon talking about covid 19, and as she started speaking i noticed it was raining heavily outside and went with it. kind of inspired by my desire for normality, kind of inspired by missing my going outside, and kind of inspired by the frank o'hara poetry i've been busy reading. i also wrote this over the span of like 3 days. 
> 
> title is from 'life worth missing' by car seat headrest. it's one of my favourite lines from the whole album.

It’s raining when George arrives at Dream’s apartment building and he’s soaked to the bone. It feels a lot like coming home.

George has been gone for the past six or so months, and he’s lost track of when the last time he stepped through this door was. But he’s here now. Waiting to knock. Waiting.

He knows, logically, that Dream knows that he’s coming back. He had told him from a payphone back in Rome, because his phone had given up on him on month two, that he’d be a week at the very most and he was finally finishing things up.

“What. Finally run out of money?” Dream had asked him over the line, and it sounded distant and hollow as George glanced around. He had somewhere to be.

“Something along those lines,” He had said back. It was a downright lie, and in retrospect George doesn’t know why he didn’t just say why. Talk about missing home, and the apartment, and Patches, and having people around. Instead, he had left it vague, telling Dream, “I’ll see you soon, then. Have a good night.”

“It’s only the afternoon here, George.” Dream had told him, quiet and subdued. George had never felt quite so far away.

But now he is here, he’s standing in front of somewhere familiar, somewhere he knows. He reaches out and knocks and stands there. He waits.

In a way, he’d rather be here than the Louvre, or the Colosseum, or La Sagrada Familia because despite everything he’s seen, all those wonders of the world, the impressive structures and the magical hidden corners, he can’t help but feel the draw back here. Back home.

Dream opens the door and looks down at George. 

Home.

“God, you look awful.” It’s the first thing Dream says to him, and George furrows his eyebrows as he says it, mildly annoyed and mildly relieved that despite the time apart Dream’s still comfortable with this, with saying these things.

“Are you not going to invite me in? I just flew for like ten hours.” He doesn’t wait for an answer as he dumps his bag in the hallway leading in before he even makes a move to step in himself.

“You should’ve told me that you’d be back today,” Dream tells him before stepping out of the way, a clear welcome for George to step into the apartment. He leaves his bag at the door as he hangs up his coat and understands that he looks a state. He’s drenched from the rain because his taxi had dropped him off a couple blocks away. 

But he’s here. God, he’s here.

“What, did they not have phones at the airport?” He asks George as he closes the door, “God, George, I would’ve picked you up. Saved you the trouble, or the cab fare.” If George wasn’t listening close enough, didn’t know Dream as well as he does, then he could easily mistake Dream’s tone for annoyance. But he doesn’t. He wants to walk up and hug Dream, but he’s aware that he’s dripping wet.

“I’m here now,” He beams up at Dream, and now everything is beginning to feel okay.

For the past few months George has been dreading coming home, and simultaneously dreading the time spent away. This strange mix of homesick and terrified to pick up where he left off. Because he knows where he left off.

The distance between George and Dream had been suddenly enforced, far too much for either of them to cope with. And as such their weekly two minute conversation had to suffice. He sent postcards when he could.

But now Dream’s standing in front of him, real and solid and a person. Something George can reach out and touch if he wants to. He wants to.

They stand there in silence for now. Patches is lying on the couch just a few feet away and the TV is playing something he can’t quite decipher because it’s turned down so low. Everything resumes, like they’re pressing play on the remote. The unspoken confession is there, mutually exchanged.

I’ve missed you.

“Can I shower? Sorry, I just kind of want to get clean and then collapse now,” George confesses, and Dream looks him up and down. Dream has George at his worst before, so it hardly offends him, or embarrasses him.

“Of course you can,” Dream nods, tells him this and it’s settled. They’re going to settle back into that same familiarity they left off with, George knows they will. “If you’re tired then I don’t want to make you unpack. You can borrow some of my clothes.” 

It’s nothing new. Hardly the first time George has done it, but he gulps as he nods. He wonders if Dream is thinking the same things that he’s thinking, that he’s desperately trying to find a way to resume to some form of normality. 

The light above them flickers slightly.

It’s oh so familiar.

How did George ever leave?

When he waits in the bathroom for Dream to come back with his clothes, having trailed water all across the living room, apologising while Dream reassured him it didn’t matter. He looks around and sees Patches looking back. He’s been gone too long, he can tell in the way the floorboards creak. He’s going to make up for it though.

He pulls his hoodie off when Dream returns, setting the clothes next to the sink along with a towel. “Take as long as you need,” He says to George and smiles this soft smile that makes George want to break down in front of him, or look him in the eyes and tell him everything. He has so many confessions playing on the tip of his tongue, threatening to escape. But they don’t.

“Thank you,” He places his hand on Dream’s forearm, as if to make it all the more sincere. Real human contact, “You’re being really nice about this. I should have told you.” He should have, but he was never going to. He never even considered it. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

George tries his best not to as he closes the door and turns on the shower. As he waits for the water to heat up he looks at himself in the mirror. He looks awful.

He’s sodden and his hair sticks to his forehead. There are deep bags underneath his eyes, the tell tale sign that he’s been struggling to sleep for the past couple of days. Worrying about this moment, about being here. His clothes cling to his skin as if he’ll have to peel them off and he feels the worst he’s felt in so long, physically.

But there’s hope. So he can push aside the way his body is starting to shut down. 

And when George gets out the shower, he dries himself and pulls on Dream’s hoodie and sweatpants. They’re too big for him, and they smell like Dream. He couldn’t ask for anything more.

Because, once more, despite the places George has been these past months, all the things he’s seen, all the unbelievable views and experiences, his heart is here.

But his heart is also part of the issue.

He steps out of the bathroom, leaving the clothes he arrived in the corner of the bathroom, in a small pile as he makes a mental note to clean that up later.

“You didn’t get rid of my room, did you?” George asks Dream, who’s gone back to watching TV on the couch with Patches, now comfortable resting on Dream’s lap. “I’m just gonna go to sleep now, I think.” 

Dream nods, looking over at the open doorway, “Uh, it’s kind of just like you left it. I didn’t really go in there.”

Nothing has changed, George tells himself. Everything has frozen in time. Hopefully, though, it’s frozen a few weeks before George left rather than the day he did so. 

George smiles rather weakly at Dream, his weariness showing through his face and movements as he begins to head for his room. The floor has been dried in his absence.

Closing the door behind him, George looks around. Nothing has changed, nothing much at all.

There’s a dust building up on his desk and his bed is made neatly. Perhaps he can turn the calendar back a few pages, say it’s still a year or so ago and hang it up in the kitchen. It’ll be like he never even left at all. The light streams in from the window.

Then he’s under his sheets, and it’s cold because no one’s slept here in months, or at least he assumes that. He’s cold but Dream’s hoodie is keeping him warm, so he tries to tuck into himself, curling up.

He hears his bedroom door open as Dream is seemingly trying his best not to interrupt, in case George is already asleep. He doesn’t account for the time George has spent contemplating whether or not he should pretend that none of this ever happened. When he sees that George is still awake, he offers him a gentle smile.

“Hey,” Dream greets him, voice soft, and George looks up at him and for a moment has so many epiphanies, these indescribable thoughts, that are all forgotten moments later. Dream sets down a glass of water by his bedside, moving his hand to run it through George’s hair. The touch is feather light but it settles him. 

“Thanks,” George mumbles and he’s tired. He needs to rest, but he wants to stay up watching Dream. 

Dream looks down at him and doesn’t say anything, just runs his knuckle down George’s cheek, and in some faint part of his brain George knows they’re not supposed to do this. Things like these are off limits. A much stronger part of his brain simply doesn’t care.

The thunder is loud outside, indicative of the raging storm now surrounding them. But confined within the walls of his bedroom, in his bed, with Dream there, he doesn’t seem to mind it.

It’s one of George’s last memories before he falls asleep. When he wakes up in the morning he wonders how long Dream lingered before he left George’s side. He wonders if Dream ever really left at all.

\--

It’s a month before George leaves, and seven months before George ends up returning again and he’s resting with his feet up in Dream’s lap. He’s texting someone about something but he’s not really paying attention to what’s on the screen. He’s not really paying attention to anything at all.

Dream is also busy. He’s writing some email for work and George doesn’t want to bother him, or anything, so he just watches. George is always happy to stare into space, knowing that the one thing he wants to be near is around, under his calves, in his mind. 

Eventually when Dream finishes up, when he sits his phone down on the arm of the couch and locks it, he turns to face George and George almost blushes when Dream catches him looking. Almost. Instead, he just kicks slightly at Dream, a smile playing on his lips. 

“What?” Dream asks, beginning to slowly grin back at George, “Are you not entertained enough?”

He asks, and George shrugs, “Well, we’re not exactly doing anything. I don’t think you mind all that much whenever I bug you.” And he knows Dream doesn’t.

Dream ends up resting his hand on George’s leg, leaving it there.

“You know that I’m usually the one getting restless and bugging you?” He asks George. He’s sunken back into the couch, relatively comfortable and relatively restless. There’s so much to do and so little simultaneously. And there’s Dream. 

“I’m allowed to switch things up sometimes.” Dream laughs at him. With him.

Outside the window, it looks like it might rain later.

Really, George thinks to himself, that’s enough.

\--

Maybe George has been slightly overconfident about how quickly Dream and his relationship would resume.

George is sitting on the couch, and it should start to feel normal any day now. He’s been home for days now. Home.

Patches is resting by George’s side, getting used to his return. He supposes she forgives him, then. He’s sure Dream forgives him too, but it’s been hard to decipher these past few months exactly what Dream was up to or feeling when George was gone. Where he was emotionally, mentally. George was afraid to ask.

And now, he’s still afraid. He’s hinging on the fact that Dream, like himself, has forgotten or repressed exactly why George was so eager to get on with his months of discovering himself.

Speaking of, George isn’t speaking about his trip at all. Dream isn’t asking. He figured when he first came back that it would come up in conversation, but no. Dream talks about mundane things just as he used to, and George responds in the same way as always. But George isn’t blind, nor deaf, nor dumb. 

He can tell that despite how much they’re pretending that everything is as planned, that George has disappeared for however long he needed, and has now come back a new man in the ways that matter, that they’re over the awkwardness that had permeated their shared living space before he left. Dream needed space just as much as George did, but George is beginning to wonder if an ocean is too much space.

George is beginning to fear that in an attempt to save whatever friendship he and dream remained with, he’s managed to kill it off.

His fears aren’t exactly at the forefront of his mind most of the time, he has more stuff to worry about now that he’s back and here to stay, but whenever they’re around each other George knows that he’s holding back. The same tenderness he once felt is now disallowed.

“What do you want for dinner?” Dream asks him, just getting home, “I’ll pay to get take out tonight, since it’s technically my turn.” George had bought dinner the night that he announced his trip, and now it’s strange to see that Dream’s still keeping track. Although, it’s not as if George hasn’t been doing the exact same. Clinging onto their routine.

Dream sits down next to George, opening up his phone as he gets ready to order food. Maybe someday soon they’ll get back into it and George will wake up and realise that Dream hasn’t vanished, he’s right here by his side. 

But that image is so wrong. 

Dream won’t wake up by his side ever. They’ll wake up in separate beds, separate bedrooms, separate homes one day. It feels like home now and George doesn’t know if he’s going to recapture that again, if that’s even possible. He wants it to be, he wants to move on and find something somewhere obtainable, and settle down where he’s allowed to. 

But it’s Dream.

Sitting in silence on the couch with Dream is more pleasant than anything George could ever do. George tried whilst he was away to recapture that, the emotion and the feelings and whatever else got mixed up along the way. But he couldn’t and he can’t. That’s why he’s still on Dream’s couch, still in Dream’s home. 

He knows, and he tells himself this, that these walls are Dream’s home. It’s the furniture, and the memories, and Patches that allow Dream to call it home. Whereas it’s a little more complicated when it comes to George. It always is, and always was, he supposes.

When dinner is ordered, Dream makes a proposal.

“It’s been forever, so,” He begins, stretching out on the couch. He’s wearing a hoodie and sweatpants like the ones he lended George but not those exact clothes, because so far George hasn’t given them back, and Dream hasn’t asked after them. 

It’s this strange space in between.

“I think we should watch a scary movie. I’ve missed seeing you be such a pussy around them,” And George kicks Dream lightly with something resembling a pout forming upon his face.

It’s the closest either of them have gotten to actually saying that they missed the other.

“Oh fuck you.” He shakes his head, and begins to shift closer to Dream, doing his best not to disrupt Patches who has gotten comfortable between them, “Horror movies don’t scare me, I just have normal fight or flight responses. They make me jump.”

Dream grins at him, “Exactly why we should watch them. Besides, you enjoy them anyway,” He shrugs, reaching for the TV remote, “It’s almost masochistic. Or you just have a thing for fear, either way.” 

George groaned, “You have a thing for being a dick, it turns out,” And Dream’s grin widens slightly. It feels cozy.

He can see outside the window that it’s raining again. It’s been doing that a lot ever since George returned. Sometimes being home is like returning in a dream.

They wait until they’ve had dinner to actually watch anything, Dream making fun of George’s order as he always does.

“What, you literally roamed a continent for God knows how long and you still can’t handle anything slightly spicy?” Dream teases and George rolls his eyes.

Not much time has passed, and everything is the same except for the fact that Patches, who had gotten up to go see the delivery guy, was now elsewhere doing whatever it is she does when she’s not in their direct eyeline. 

“Being in other countries hasn’t, like, changed my taste buds, you idiot,” George hits back, and settles down onto the couch beside Dream. Each moment he edges closer, and he wonders to himself if this is testing the waters.

“So you travelled the world and ate boring food the whole time? God you’re lame,” Dream laughs at him, and George turns to give a faint little punch to Dream’s arm, which only makes his chuckles grow louder, “God, you hit almost as weak as your food.” 

George doesn’t try to punch any harder, only sits there looking upset, before he starts to laugh himself, “Worry about your own food then. Or I won’t watch any movie with you.” 

Dream agrees and they continue on. 

The ability to joke around like this is something they’ve been able to recapture to an extent. Maybe a year ago George would be a lot more comfortable continuing things, to take the joke too far, and end up in any sort of compromising position. But not now.

Now, they sit a respectable foot apart as they eat, and now George knows what words can escalate things in the way he’s been avoiding this whole time.

George regrets what he did, for sure. He’s sorry. He wants to say he’s sorry. He’s sorry he ruined all of this by saying it out like, by letting him know, and sorry for running from the situation afterwards, not taking responsibility. He wonders if sorry is enough, even when Dream hasn’t asked for any kind of apology. He hasn’t asked for anything.

George isn’t even sure that Dream’s realising how much he’s giving to George.

The movie gets put on. Dream reassures George that the movie is going to be awful, and George trusts him, leaning back into the cushions. He’s sitting closer to Dream and Dream’s arm is draped along the back of the couch absentmindedly, as if he doesn’t know how tempting it is now for George to move in closer.

Dream has to know.

And the movie does genuinely suck, but Dream is unfortunately right about George being pretty easy to scare, and so he’s even more on edge than he usually is. He knows that Dream can tell, knows that Dream is glancing over and watching him when the music gets quiet and when he knows that something is about to jump up on screen. It’s sometimes even more nerve wracking than the movie itself.

George has read somewhere, he can’t remember where or when, that when you’re anticipating being scared, it’ll scare you more. This probably explains why when there’s finally that loud noise on screen, when the ghost’s face appears, he genuinely jumps with a quiet curse. Of course, Dream finds this hilarious.  
“George, are you serious?” He asks through sharp bursts of laughter and he considers leaving for a split second, maybe overreacting is the answer, before rolling his eyes at Dream.

“Shut up,” He mutters, somewhat under his breath to Dream, who sits up.

George isn’t really expecting it, the affection. He half wants to react physically when Dream pulls George back into his arms and it all feels wrong, because George has spent the last couple of days panicking over whether or not Dream would ever want to be near him again, and here he is. 

This, of course, is bittersweet to George. Because if Dream is doing this it means he doesn’t care and he’s fine, they can resume where they left off all those months ago. However, on the other side of that double edged sword, Dream not caring hurt because it meant that really, it was nothing. Whatever, it’s not like George exactly had his hopes up. 

“Come here,” Dream tells him and George easily obliges, going pliant as Dream holds him to his chest, “See, there. Now you’ve got me to protect you,” Dream jokes and George feels better. He doesn’t feel great whatsoever, but he knows feeling better is a start at the very least. Lying here.

The ceiling is white, and the storm is raging on outside, growing harsher in the evening. George reminds himself that he’s here, and he’s warm, and he’s secure. He’s now in Dream’s arms.

He laughs faintly and he does feel safe here, in the way he always has. The two of them being cuddly with each other was, once again, nothing new. Before George left, and obviously before everything happened, it wasn’t uncommon to find them like this. But that’s past tense. Right now, George is unsure what to do with his hands. Dream is taller than him and somewhere in his primate brain, he just feels protected. It’s almost bizarre.

And the movie goes on, with George now less affected by each jumpscare now that Dream was there surrounding him. Also he’s pretty sure Dream turned the sound down at one point so as to not actually scare him out of his skin every single time the dynamics rose. It felt very comfortable.

When it ends, with its climax as terrible as the rest of it, Dream is still holding onto George. If George didn’t know better, he’d say that his hold has only grown tighter. George doesn’t want to move.

He reaches for the remote to turn off the TV and as soon as he’s done with that, Dream pulls him back. “Do you mind staying like this?” Dream asks, quietly. For the first time in a while, well George supposes he hasn’t been around in a while, Dream sounds hesitant. George wonders if Dream has been torturing himself in the same way George has. Not just these past days, but ever since George left.

“Of course I don’t,” He tells Dream, because it’s the truth and because he enjoys the warmth of having someone there next to him.

When George had left for Europe, he hadn’t done it with the explicit purpose to be chaste. Hardly. George wanted something to help him forget home, and if that something was someone then so be it. But it never happened. Each night he was alone and he didn’t even try. He could’ve tried.

He hasn’t slept next to anyone in months now. The last person was Dream. He supposes they’ve picked up where they’ve left off in that regard.

Dream pulls George closer and it’s not strange because it’s the same way he always did, and always has done. But what’s abnormal about the moment isn’t the way George curls into the hold, nor is it the way that Patches has decided to watch from afar. 

It’s abnormal when Dream leans in with a soft laugh and complains about George being bony and uncomfortable. But it sounds a lot more like “Please don’t leave again.”

And George tells him to shut up, but he really means to say; “I won’t.”

\--

It’s a few weeks before George leaves and he can tell that there’s something bubbling under the surface.

He’s been antsy lately for no real reason, other than Dream’s continuous company. It’s not that he minds being around him all the time, after all Dream is one of his best friends, he’s supposed to be. However, these days George can feel there’s some sort of tension, even when there’s not supposed to be.

And it’s not as if he was unaware of the fact that sometimes his mind strays from the designated path, and he spends a second too long looking at Dream’s hands. Or when he accidentally, so he says, wears one of Dream’s hoodies. There are moments where he prepares for an epiphany, to realise that all this time he’s been looking for Dream. But he doesn’t. 

Maybe it’s because it was never going to be an enlightenment, and more just a gradual acceptance. There’s never one moment where George tells himself that this is it, it just happens. Maybe it’s always been this way. What if it’ll always be this way?

Dream is out right now running errands and George is alone in his room, staring around. He probably should be doing something at least resembling productivity right now, but he’s not. Instead, he’s lying there and worrying his head off. 

The time bomb is ticking, George can hear it, and he’s wondering how long it will take before things inevitably have to explode. He’s wondering how long he can stall it for.

It’s bright outside, but the looming cloud indicates that it’s about to storm soon. 

Soon.

\--

“You know you never talk about Europe with me?” Dream asks George one evening. They’re on George’s because he set up some Netflix show on his PC and they’re watching it from there, but they’re not really watching.

He’s been back for almost a month.

“Hm?” George turns to face him and sees that Dream is looking at him, and then starts to wonder just how long Dream has been looking. “Oh, I guess I don’t. I don’t really see the need to,” He shrugs.

They’re sitting apart, because despite the moments of intimacy still occurring from time to time it’s still not as normal as it once was. George wonders, on occasion, if he missed Dream. If the moment had passed him by.

“You talk about it with the others. If it weren’t for that I’d probably assume you just stayed in a hotel for half a year,” It could be accusatory almost, if Dream’s voice wasn’t so calm, so collected. George guesses that Dream could’ve been preparing to ask, contemplating it for a while now.

“I just don’t think anything happened that you’d be interested in,” George tells him and it’s only a half lie. He doesn’t want Dream to know he was spending so much time moping, that he left to get away from Dream in the first place, although Dream probably knew that already, and that during his whole time there despite everything he’d done, he felt better next to Dream than anything else.

He wants to tell Dream these things, that the art galleries may as well have been empty without Dream, that he wants to take Dream to see these incredible feats of humanity, watch him react. He wants to tell Dream everything he’s ever known, but he doesn’t.

“What?” Dream raises an eyebrow, and George looks away, “Do you think I’m uncultured? I know that Spain exists, idiot,” Dream pushes a little at George who laughs faintly. It’s really the first time they’re discussing anything about George’s absence.

And George wants to ask about Dream, where has Dream been these past six months? Physically, within these walls, but he has no clue about anything beyond that. Did someone take his place? George isn’t sure if there’s even room for jealousy in this bundle of emotions he has within him, those that he wishes he had thrown onto the floor, hidden away in the corner. Instead, they now take center stage in a way that he never bargained for.

“I know you know,” George reassures him, leaning back against his wall, “I know. It’s just that I kind of wandered around for a while. I just went places, looked at things, and then moved onto whatever was next.” And that’s the whole truth, maybe with some aspects omitted for the sake of entertainment, or an acceptable story.

He doubts Dream believes him. Not really.

They stay silent afterwards as George pretends to be heavily invested in whatever show is playing on his monitor, but he can feel Dream’s eyes on him, he knows this conversation isn’t over yet. He’s going to have to fess up one day, but for now he decides to pretend that he won’t. There’s something bubbling under the surface again, and it didn’t go well for him last time, so he won’t repeat past mistakes.

What would be the point if he did? 

Dream speaks up again, “Were you with anyone?”

It’s a plain and simple question, with a simple answer. Except it’s not that simple, is it? It never has been.

“No.” George admits, quietly, “Were you?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

He figures, really, that this is just damage control. Dream trying to figure out if George is fine now, and really did find someone in Eastern Europe, or elsewhere, and got his heart broken well enough that he could leave things be. And George wishes he had. George, in his own sense, wants this to end, because it’s torturous.

He tried a clean break, leaving, disappearing for weeks at a time. And he’s trying exposure therapy now. Neither of these are proving to be beneficial in the slightest because George's head is running in circles in the same way it always has, oh so loud. 

“Why not?” Dream asks him, and George is too afraid to look at him while he speaks, “Did you not meet the European standards?” Dream asks, his tone lighter as if to coax George back into comfort and out of his nerves. When difficult topics are approached, however, as Dream probably well knows, George tends to recede, to leave. 

“You know I’m technically European, right?” George asks Dream, closing his eyes for a moment, as if that could somehow transport him from the moment. He shakes his head again with this tired sigh, “It just wasn’t something that happened.”

This time, George can’t hear nor see the storm but he knows it’s there. He knows.

“Well, why not?” Dream asks, and George wants to tell him that this is invasive and none of his business. He wants to snap at him and get him to leave, but that would just leave him where he’s always been. Lying alone in his room.

“It just didn’t. I dunno, wasn’t looking for that,” He sighs and reaches a hand up to push his hair back, leaving his hand pressed against his forehead. He’s got a headache but not really, and it persists. It keeps on persisting and it all rages on. Dream moves closer to him. “I didn’t want to. It wasn’t what I was there for. Why didn’t you?”

He can’t see Dream, because his hand is covering his face. He’s tired, and he’s been tired for years now. His bones are growing weary. His heartbeat is gradually becoming an increasing threat. It thumps in his chest.

“Because I didn’t want anyone. You know that I wouldn’t.”

It’s so unfair how these things happen, George thinks to himself. He wants to look over at Dream, wants to confront him and ask why he feels the need to be so fucking cruel. But he also knows that Dream isn’t doing this to be cruel, Dream doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t know if Dream could ever understand how deep this runs.

“Dream, can we leave this here. I really don’t want to talk about this kind of stuff,” George asks, no, he pleads. “We’ve never spoken about this, I don’t see why we have to start.”

When Dream places his hand on George’s shoulder, George wants to cry out.

“George,” Dream starts, his voice is gentle and soft, “I’m sorry.” 

George doesn’t know what Dream’s apologising for, and instead of accepting or rejecting it, he only nods and leans into the minor way Dream is touching him.

“I just want things to be okay again.” Dream tells him, wrapping his arm around George.

He still doesn’t want to look at Dream, he still doesn’t want to make this real. Instead, he stares intently into the mirror on the opposite end of the room that he can see the two of them reflected in. He watches Dream's face. Dream doesn’t notice.

They’re both so ordinary, but not to the extent that George wants them to be.

George wants so much more than he’s allowed to have, he wants more than being held and holding back, than going about with his usual domestic farce knowing full well that one day the illusion will end and the curtain will rise. They’ll head home. The audience won’t applaud.

It’ll be a lousy ending, George can see it now. When Dream inevitably leaves, because he sees this as inevitable, why wouldn’t he? When it happens it’ll be awful, and there will be tears shed behind the scenes. It’ll be disappointing. But he supposes the critics will call it realistic.

But for now? For now, Dream is pulling George in rather than pushing him away and it’s all George wants, all he needs. Faintly, in the back of his head, his acute desire to be there with someone is being fulfilled. The pessimist in him is suppressing this, though, with reminders there’s a time limit.

It’s funny, though, that despite the anger that George had been anticipating when he was away, the silent treatment or screaming, Dream is acting like he’s the one in the wrong. George doesn’t know how to tell him that he’s not.

“I’m sorry,” Dream repeats, and George can’t see his face clearly, not in the dim light, not from the mirror. It’s smudged anyway.

George still doesn’t get it, and if anything he’s sorry that he’s made Dream feel like he has anything to apologise for.

“Don’t be.” George murmurs, and he wants to tell Dream everything again.

He doesn’t.

“I’ve missed you so fucking much,” Dream tells George. His voice is almost a whisper and he says it like a confession, like it’s a sin. The chapel bells are ringing. 

It’s the first time either of them have said it out loud. George’s throat is dry.

Dream, or the version of him that’s appearing in the mirror, finally meets George’s eyes.

He still can’t hear the storm.

He still knows it’s there.

\--

When they’re out grocery shopping, George allows himself to indulge in that ever so present fantasy of domestic bliss. He likes to argue with Dream, actually, for no reason other than the fact it makes things seem a little bit more interesting. Dream is mostly in on the joke, he thinks. If he isn’t, he shows no indication of it.

It’s not long before George leaves, but George wouldn’t believe you if you told him that he was about to spend what feels now like a lifetime away from here, from his home. 

For now, he’s busy arguing with Dream on the price of bread, or something silly along those lines. There’s no space between then as they push the cart down the aisle. In the artificial glow of the supermarket light, George feels at his most comfortable.

They never really discuss George being homesick, because it rarely comes up. Dream doesn’t seem too interested in what living in the UK is like, and George is never interested enough to actually tell him. But sometimes when it all seems so bizarre, it’s keeping this boring routine that keeps him going.

That and Dream.

But he doesn’t really tell Dream about that either.

And although the impending doom doesn’t seem so obvious here, George has had this pit in his stomach these past few days indicating that maybe things are about to take a turn. He’s so scared of things ending, but he’s not realised it. Not quite yet.

George thinks, really, he’s never going to realise this fear until he has to face it, until the worst case scenario comes around.

But the worst case scenario will never happen when they’re wheeling a shopping trolley in some supermarket nearby, going to get milk. It feels almost deceptively normal, and it is because this is the life that they both lead. He wonders if people mistake their relationship for anything else. He wonders if he would ever correct them if they assumed such things.

“By the way,” Dream begins to say conversationally, “There’s apparently supposed to be this awful storm starting tomorrow. We should probably stack up on a few things, I know you don’t really like to go outside when it’s like that.” And George doesn’t.

The storm looms upon the back of George’s mind like a subtle threat.

Here it comes.

\--

George knows, he promises he knows, realistically, they’re going to have to talk about it one day.

The running away, that is. George has realised that he and Dream are fully capable of ignoring a lot of questionable moments in their friendship. However, George’s absence may be a bit too much for even those two to ignore.

It feels like he never left a lot of the time, when he and Dream slip into their usual routine again. They’ll make each other coffee in the morning, and take turns making meals. They do their respective assigned chores without complaint and some nights the hangout, and they have fun in the way they used to. The way they’re supposed to.

When George left, he knows that their friends had joked to him that it was he and Dream breaking up. He wouldn’t really react to it, especially not over a phone call from a different continent. The ocean allowed him to put a lot more space between himself and his situation than he had ever expected.

But there’s no ocean anymore. Instead there’s a couch, a coffee table, a bedroom door. There’s nothing stopping George anymore from destroying this suddenly, even though that’s what he’s been doing all along. 

Despite all this, George is getting pretty good at avoidance tactics.

He’s now used to being suddenly and inexplicably busy whenever Dream seems to be in one of those moods where he feels that it’s necessary to broach a more serious topic. He’s also very used to shutting down physically whenever Dream actually catches him in one of these moments. When he asks about Europe, George, his motivations for anything. It just seems so personal. He’s not sure how personal they can get these days.

George’s heart is currently placed locked away in his pocket, this one at least. He wonders if Dream keeps images of George hidden away in one of his old broken hearts. One of those ones that’s locked away. He longs to feel as though he’s worth that, worth a heartache. In reality, he knows that Dream’s probably only hurting because he knows that everything has changed now.

Dream cares about George, that’s something George could never deny. Not when they have these moments of sudden affinity where Dream will place a hand on George’s hip, or George will lean against Dream when he’s doing something. They still do these things, they’ve never been able to stop that, but every time they do the countdown that’s ever present in George’s head grows louder.

It’s a different countdown to last time, but it’s just as dangerous.

As often as Dream has these confrontational moments, where George feels as if maybe it’s time to stop pretending that everything is fine, he’s been a lot more quiet lately. George supposes that’s to be expected, he lived alone for so long he probably grew used to having no one to talk to. And yet he still feels guilt for that.

Dream gets home later tonight, when it’s already dark and George has begun to make food for the two of them. They’ve settled into their routines. There’s that at the very least. He tells George a quick hello before he goes to fuss over Patches, and George greets him back as if everything is normal, as if they can keep on doing this.

It’s a normal night, it’s supposed to be a normal night.

Even when all is quiet, though, George swears he can hear thunder off into the distance. 

The quiet is perhaps what tells George’s mind that he’s hearing it.

Dream is mostly in his room and George feels as if something here is going to eventually explode. He’s not quite ready for the carnage. He wants to put it off, at least, even if it’s only for another small while. He’s done it before, anyway.

George decides rather than to call Dream out and risk anything, to bring Dream’s food to him physically. It’s small, but it’s a definitive act of kindness that he’s sure he can use to convince himself that they’re friends and everything is working out, even when it’s crumbling slightly at his feet. It’s slightly shaky, sure, but at the end of the day he can work with what he has.

He knocks lightly on Dream’s door, and it feels like that day he came home again. He feels like he’s drenched and waiting to be let in, welcomed home. 

“Come in!” Dream calls out, and George does.

Dream’s room is relatively neat, the bed made and everything organised for the time being. George hasn’t really been in Dream’s room since he came back. He knows why, but he really prefers not to say. It’s better if he doesn’t say, actually. 

“I made dinner,” He tells Dream, stepping over to the desk that Dream sits at, awkwardly setting the plate down. He could leave at this point, wish Dream a good night and be on his way, free to worry his head away in his own room. But he doesn’t. No, instead he lingers by Dream’s side, peeking at what he’s looking at on his screen. Just a social media feed.

“Thanks,” Dream offers him a smile that’s bright, sure, but it’s fading fast. Friends aren’t supposed to tear each other apart, George thinks to himself, but he supposes that’s all they’ve been doing these past few days, weeks, months. Maybe it’s all they’ve ever been able to do.

It’s almost strange, George’s internal monologue continues, that he doesn’t actually remember meeting Dream. Dream has just always been around, hasn’t he? There’s nothing that scares George quite so much as losing that. So he’ll cling. Despite everything he’s going to cling.

“It’s no problem,” George shakes his head and looks over at Dream who looks back. He wants to ask if Dream’s forgotten what they were like back then, when everything was easy and neither of them were bothered by trivial events and minor complications. When time was nothing but an abstract concept, not one to worry about.

There’s no use worrying about time now, but neither of them can help it. George knows Dream can’t, he can see it whenever they’re together.

“What are you up to tonight?” George moves to sit on Dream’s bed behind him, curious and just wanting to be around Dream for a little while. Despite all the issues, and the worries, and the time that George spends overthinking things, Dream’s presence is inherently calming. Especially if the subject bothering George at that particular moment in time is the man himself. 

“Oh, nothing,” Dream turns in his chair to face George, and he has a look on his face that tells George that he’s not getting out of the questioning tonight. And George has walked right into it. George isn’t stupid, he can’t be after all this, so he knows that some part in his subconscious wants to rip off the bandaid and stop pretending that everything is fine. Face his problems head on.

“George…” Dream begins, like he’s thinking up words to say. He’s been trying to say this for so long that the words have gotten jumbled up in his mind, an abstract blend of “Why?” And et cetera et cetera. George isn’t ready, but he knows he never will be.

“I’m sorry,” George spits out quickly unsure how much he’s apologising for, and how much it will actually mean in the end. It only matters that he gets those words out. He’s not sure that he’s actually said them yet, “Dream, I’m sorry and I should’ve told you that ages ago but I never knew when. I didn’t want it to be cheap,” He confesses, rambling on in his slight nervousness. His hands tense in Dream’s sheets.

“George,” Dream repeats and he looks like he’s going to climb off the chair and hold George, tell him exactly what he wants to hear. But he doesn’t. He sits there and he stays still. “George, what are you sorry for?” He asks, genuinely confused and oh god, George has never deserved this. 

George can realise it was him that did this. It’s been his fault.

“I’m sorry for ruining this,” He thinks he would be about to cry if things weren’t so surreal right now. George isn’t sure what it would take for him to cry. He cried once when he was away, after one of their phone calls.

George had been musing at the time about home, and had said to Dream, “Isn’t it weird how despite the fact that we’re a whole ocean away, when I look up and see the moon I know you can see it too?”

Dream had responded, “It’s too cloudy to see the moon tonight.”

He won’t cry right now.

“What did you ruin?” Dream asks again, his tone strange as George struggles to fully communicate exactly what he means, exactly what’s going on.

George gestures vaguely between them, “Us. Our friendship. Whatever it is. I killed it, didn’t I?” 

Dream pauses, and shakes his head. “You didn’t kill anything. George, you haven’t done anything.”

“I have though!” George exclaims, frustrated because now isn’t the time for Dream to be overly rational, the time for him to be comforting in kind, “I left. And I fucked up by leaving. I shouldn’t have, but I had no idea what else to do.”

“Is that what you’re going to do now, then?” Dream asks him and it’s George’s turn to pause and stare. The timebomb is once again audible.

“What do you mean?” He asks. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“You’ve been weird around me lately, George. You’re not talking to me, and you’re avoiding me. You were like this when you ran off last time.” Dream is right, of course, but George isn’t going to run again. He’s tired of running. It doesn’t do anything.

“I’m not going anywhere, Dream.” George reassures him, blinking at him and looking him in the eye to get his point across. 

“Are you sure, George? Because if you want to leave, you know, for good, I get it.”

God, Dream.

“I’m not going to leave.” George promises again, “I don’t want to leave. There’s no reason for me to go anywhere. I just feel like I messed everything up. I want to go back to how we were before.” He’s desperate but tries his best not to let it show. He’s talking a mile a minute.

“We can’t go back to the way things were, though,” Dream shakes his head, “Not until you let us.”

Something shifts and George can tell, somewhere deep down that they’re finally going to have to discuss everything that happened. He doesn’t want to, he never has, because he doesn’t want to hear what he already knows. Everything he’s been telling himself these past few months.

\--

It’s a week or so before George leaves, and a day before he purchases an impromptu plane ticket to the Netherlands. 

George has just woken up.

He fell asleep on Dream’s bed last night, and that’s not too out of the ordinary. Nothing is about this morning, it’s just them. Dream is wrapped around him, in the way he often is; whether that be conscious or unconscious. George feels warm.

Grey light leaks like flowing water through the window panes, as they hadn’t bothered to close the curtains that previous night. It’s the weekend, although George doesn’t currently know exactly what day it is, and he doesn’t want to be awake. He wants to curl back into the warmth that he’s being held in and fall back into a comfortable rest.

It’s just as he’s about to do that when he begins to feel Dream wake up. George knows this is what’s happening by the way that Dream holds on slightly tighter, leaning forward as he buries his face in George’s hair. George could shove Dream off, sure. He could go back to his own bed and sleep there. 

He knows, though, that really the both of them prefer not to be alone, and that both of them prefer having someone around when they wake and when they sleep. It shouldn’t matter all that much that they decided to be that someone for each other. Somewhere down the line, they’ll stop feeling so lonely.

It’s peaceful for a minute, for those moments. On some mornings with Dreams, George will feel his heart swell and everything finally seems right. There’s a word for this, a word for all of this, but George can’t seem to place it even if it’s stuck on the tip of his tongue. He’ll say it one of these days.

One day he’ll be honest.

“Dream,” He murmurs quietly, for no particular reason. Partly to let Dream know that he’s awake, partly because he likes the way it feels to say the name. His heart is heavy and he feels protected in some part of his brain. He hopes that Dream feels the same way whenever they’re close like this.

George feels safe, despite the impending danger. He hasn’t quite realised yet how things are about to change. Something here is going to explode between the two of them. George can’t stop it anymore.

The timebomb will go off. He’ll have to live with the wreckage.

When Dream hears his name, he only clings on tighter to George, telling him to stay. George wants to stay so badly, oh god. 

George will stay, he tells himself.

Even if he doesn’t stay, he won’t stray too far. Just around the corner. George can always be found. They’re going to be fine in the end.

George turns slightly so his head is tucked underneath Dream’s chin. Perhaps friends don’t do this, he thinks, maybe friends avoid moments like these. Friends probably don’t consider these kinds of things at all. But what does anyone know about friends? What does anyone know when they’ve never been able to get George and Dream.

And George is still oblivious. When he looks back at this moment, he’ll scream at himself because he could’ve gotten out. Could’ve escaped this and things would have gone back to normal. But he isn’t leaving, he’s staying here at this moment. It feels so natural. It feels like George is finally home.

It’s not enough, but it’ll do for now.

Dream mumbles something quietly and to George it sounds like a hymn, something of worship. George doesn’t hear him, not really, but he longs for those to be something worth remembering. Or maybe George does hear him, but the specifics have all gotten muddled up in this mess of details playing in a constant regretful loop in his head.

“George,” Dream repeats himself, and his voice is hoarse from sleep and it all feels so domestic and real. George struggles to remind himself that it isn’t.

Now he’s looking up at Dream and it’s raining lightly outside, the sky is cloudy but it doesn’t stop the light casting over both of them. It looks incredible. It looks like everything George has ever wanted. Like a scene from a painting come to life, but if George reaches out and touches it, it’ll tear. These things are fragile, doesn’t he know that?

Isn’t he scared? He should be.

Something feels different now, and it feels off. Something has shifted its weight and now they’re imbalanced. He feels like he is floating, no one can tell George he isn’t in space at this moment. His eyes are wide like lightbulbs and twice as bright. His heart thuds so loud he thinks maybe Dream can hear it.

And as his heart thuds, it might be trying to break free from his ribs. Break them. George is sure that if Dream placed his hand upon George’s chest and pressed down, he’d feel the blood and the mess from the whole ordeal. But he’s too scared to look down now.

Instead he looks at Dream. And looks. They’re face to face. It’s enough.

And then something changes once more, something happens that is vague when recalled. George will claim he’s the one who did this, who made it happen, while Dream will argue the exact opposite. Neither of them definitively know how it begins. 

But they both know all too well how it ends.

In that moment the screen cuts to black and when we fade back in, Dream’s lips are pressed against George’s. He should be so scared right now.

He’s not. He’s never felt so fearless, because for a moment everything falls into place. Everything for a moment is making sense, and the word’s decipher themselves. George thinks he understands what it’s like to see the world through everyone else’s eyes, without the needless complications and with just life.

George is kissing Dream.

Fuck. 

George is kissing Dream and there is nothing he wants less in the world than for this to end. It won’t. He keeps saying this to himself in his head as he feels Dream’s hand trailing down to his waist, warm and firm and so real. He’s not dreaming. He swears he’s not.

And the rain outside for this ephemeral point in time no longer matters because within the confines of Dream and George, they’ll get by. They will.

But it stops. It has to stop. Something was always going to go wrong, and George realises this is it, this is where the bomb goes off. He just hopes it’s over quick.

This is where Dream pulls away, his hand under George’s shirt and gripping onto his side, and he looks at George.

Maybe he looks for a moment too long. Or maybe he looks for long enough that reality comes crashing back to George like a crumbling tower.

George moves away, and shushes Dream when he begins to say something.

The warmth leaves him as he climbs out of bed.

He looks out of the window to see that it’s really been pouring down with rain this whole time.

\--

George needs to work this out. 

He’s slept on it, but one night isn’t going to fix half a year of avoidance tactics and pretending that nothing serious has happened. He’s been far too busy acting, and maybe now's the time to call off the show and take his final bow.

He’s sitting with Dream silently, and awkwardly, as they have been for a while now. George isn’t sure how he’s been managing to block that out of his mind. But they’re still with each other, because Dream is unconvinced that George is going to stay, and George is struggling to cope with the fact that he always will.

George doesn’t want to be stuck. But he is. It’s like a moth to a flame, but he knows how it’s going to end. He’s read the story a thousand times and each time the ending is the same, but he wants to scribble over it, rewrite the tale. Several millennia of it being the same be damned, this is George’s story now.

But it’s like Dream said to him last night, it’s not going to happen. Not until they let themselves take control.

That’s what they’re doing.

“I’m sorry,” George murmurs quietly, but doesn’t face Dream. He’s been repeating it over and over all night as if saying it so many times will make up for all the times he didn’t, all the times he skirted away from taking responsibility. But Dream doesn’t want sorry. But sorry is all that George can give him.

“Stop saying sorry,” Dream sighs and George can feel that Dream is facing him now, waiting for George to do the same. “I just need to know when you’re ready to talk things through. Or when you’re going to leave. I can’t do it again.”

And George doesn’t know. Maybe if they both stopped being so fucking cryptic, if they just explained it all things would go away. They’d laugh it off. It’d be nothing.

“I’m sorry that I kissed you,” He confesses, ignoring Dream. “And I’m sorry that I couldn’t face it after I did. I’m sorry that I left you with such short notice, and I’m sorry I never took responsibility for that either. I was scared.”

“You don’t need to be sorry for those things, you know?” Dream asks him, moving closer to George, who places his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. He wants to curl up into a ball. “Well, maybe some of it. But I drove you off. And I just want you to realise that you can leave. You don’t owe me shit. You don’t have to stay.”

George laughs, quiet and sorrowful, “I don’t want to leave, though. Being away from you was so hard. I’ve never felt so lonely, isn’t that sad? Isn’t that so lame?” He continues on, leaning into Dream’s touch slightly, “You never drove me off. You never will. I didn’t want to lose you and that’s why I left. ‘Cus I knew if I stayed things would get messed up. But they already had. And I just made it worse. I’ve never been good at damage control.”

George pulls his legs up underneath him as he sits next to George. 

“Are either of us at fault?” Dream asks, and George can’t answer. “We should’ve never let it get this far, you know? I should’ve just sat you down when you came back and told you that it’s all gonna be fine, and me and you are gonna make it through. I didn’t know how to.” He confesses and now it’s George’s turn to be the church, to be the pastor. This is still a sin in the worst way.

“I should’ve let you.” George smiled weakly, even if Dream couldn’t see. “Did you hate me while I was gone? I’ve always been too scared to ask.”

“I could never do that. Not when it wasn’t your fault. I understood, even if I didn’t like it,” Dream shrugs, George can see the movement from the corner of his eyes and it’s like a burst of sun behind the clouds, but he miscalculated and he’s facing the wrong direction. He’s missed everything pleasant without even realising and it’s a heavy downpour for the foreseeable future. 

He wants to go back.

“I couldn’t stand talking to you when you were gone, though. I hated the fact that you left, and I hated that it felt like my fault.”

“I promise, it’s not your fault. I just know myself well enough to know that it got too close.” He mumbles quietly, “I wanted to give the both of us time to recover, and I wanted to pretend that nothing happened. Maintain a sense of normalcy.”

“But we can’t keep avoiding it because we don’t want to face the truth. I came to terms with it a while ago. We just hit a bump in the road,” Dream tells him and George doesn’t want to be a bump in the road, a minor setback, but he also wants to be here. Maybe being so is the only way he can keep this going.

“Then we can both agree it happened and move on?” George asks, voice soft and scared.

“For now.”

The faint patter on the windows sounds a lot like stones trying to smash it open.

\--

It’s a few days before George up and leaves, and he’s sitting on the couch with Dream.

“I’m going to finally go on that trip I always spoke about,” George informs Dream. Being alone will be good for him, now. It’ll give him some perspective.

“Oh,” Dream stops whatever he’s doing to look at George, curious but not mad. George isn’t sure if he wants Dream to be mad, but he wants something more than indifference. This is exactly why he has to leave. It’s just doing a good job of proving the necessity of getting out. “How long are you going to be gone for?”

“Uh, I haven’t worked that out. Maybe a couple of months? I don’t know yet,” George hasn’t thought this through, honestly, but the idea has been in the back of his mind for so long that he’s been just waiting for a moment to finally do it. He just never really expected the chance he was handed to be so bittersweet. “I’ll come home though.”

“You better. I still need you to pay rent,” Dream smiles at him, bright and supportive. If George looks closer, he’ll see that it’s a bit of a facade and there’s something breaking in Dream’s face. But George doesn’t bother to look closer.

Later that week when George flies out, his flight is almost delayed due to an incoming storm. Almost.

\--

George is sitting on the floor against the wall with Dream by his side. 

They’re on their second hour of acknowledging and moving on and so far, it’s not looking too great. George has so much more he wants to say now that he’s gotten a chance to spill some of it, and Dream seems distant, like he’s finally had to accept something. 

Which sucks, because George should be the one doing all of that.

“Can I tell you something?” George eventually asks Dream, and he’s considering just not waiting for an answer and letting it all out because he deserves that at the very least.

“You know you can,” Dream reassures him but George really isn’t sure about that. He takes in a breath.

“I didn’t get with anyone in Europe because I was too busy thinking about you,” He admits and Dream stays quiet, letting him speak, “I hated waking up alone every morning, but every time I considered finding someone to, you know, be there, I just felt guilty. Because it wouldn’t have been you.”

“What do you mean?” Dream asks, and he’s turning physically to face George, who’s trying to look away. He shrugs.

“I feel like maybe some part of me thought that kissing you would get this all out of my system and I’d realise I was wrong, and I can be your best friend and not care. It just made me miss you more,” He’s confessing too much now, but Dream is watching him with big, sad, puppy-plaintive eyes and George can’t help but tell him everything. All the truths that he’s owed for years.

“George,” Dream whispers and George still struggles to look at him, until Dream moves his hand to George’s chin and turns his head to face him. 

“Dream,” George is scared. He wonders if it’s storming.

“It’s been me? You thought I didn’t want you?” Dream looks desperate, and George is shocked, because he assumes they established this.

He nods.

“George, you fucking idiot.”

Dream leans in and kisses him again. 

Oh.

And everything is okay. George lets his mind go blank.

Whatever happens now, they can only go up.

George doesn’t know why he’s so nervous.

He doesn’t even understand what’s happening, he just knows if he keeps kissing Dream then everything's going to work out. The moment of clarity he felt before except it’s so much greater, so much stronger because Dream’s kissing him, and he chose to, and despite all of this Dream wants him.

Maybe something has exploded again, but it doesn’t do any damage. Maybe it’s for the best.

And when things escalate, because they do escalate, Dream has George pinned down on the couch. Neither of them are willing to move too far. When George looks up at Dream, flushed and breathless and nowhere near capable of coherently explaining what’s happening, he thinks it’s the most magnificent thing he’s ever seen.

The portraits in the gallery are just paint, and the sculptures are just marble. What is Michelangelo’s David when he’s not living, breathing, above George, when it’s stationary and can’t move and sway in time with their movements? The tears of fallen angels are painted on, and despite all the rage in their eyes they don’t have the intensity of the adoration George can see in Dream’s. They never will.

He wants to say something now, but no words can come out. His throat has closed up. He can’t speak anymore.

But there’s no need for words, not now.

Dream fucks George on the couch that day, or maybe it’s some other day because now that everything has sorted itself out it all blurs together in George’s head. It’s awkward, and they fumble with it. Neither of the two of them want to admit just how nervous it makes them. George is shaking, even, at some points and he feels so stupid for it. He’s pretty sure Dream is doing the same.

Everything makes sense, he thinks, as it happens, as Dream pushes in and it hurts, of course it does, but everything is worth it. And the pain subsides, and everything becomes that oh so pleasant way that George has wanted to have for so long. And now it’s his. As he grabs Dreams hair, with Dream’s face pressed against his collarbone, he yearns to know how it took them so long.

It feels far more intimate than he ever expected it too, partially because they were already so used to moments of close proximity, lips hovering over skin. Now, when they touch, George expects the same level of intensity, and in a way it's so much more. 

George could wait for these moments to pass him by again, moments where he feels so good, in this overwhelming state of euphoria because of Dream. His free hand grips the side of the couch and there’s nothing on his mind other than Dream.

It’s everything he’s ever expected, and there are words on his tongue that he thinks he should say, but he looks up at Dream and thinks fuck it, because Dream knows anyway.

It’s the way George’s name sounds on Dream’s lips when it happens, when his voice gets quiet and he murmurs it repeatedly into George’s ear. He says it like a prayer, like he’s worshipping George. It’s so much more. George has never been with anyone quite in the way that he has Dream.

And when it’s over, Dream sleeps in George’s bones.

And when it’s over George looks up at Dream, and realises that all he’s ever needed to do is just pay attention.

George looks Dream in the eyes.

He knows it’s home.

Things are starting to clear up around here.

\--

It’s around an hour before George returns home, and he’s waiting at the airport for his taxi to arrive.

Suitcase in hand, he squirms on the spot trying to work out what he’s going to say, what he’s going to do.

In the end, though, when the taxi arrives and he gets in, he just decides to wing it. Dream knows him well enough to know if everything is going to be planned. If it’s awkward, so be it. This confidence will be diminished over the passing weeks.

The weather forecast on the taxi driver’s radio informs George that despite the heavy rainfall, the sun will come out sometime soon.

\--

George is wearing one of Dream’s hoodies, which they now share officially, as they lie in Dream’s bed together. There’s something playing from Dream’s computer speakers, music that he doesn’t recognise, nor does he care to. It’s all okay. After years upon years of assuming, he’s finally got a tried and true answer to all of his questions.

His heart is closing like a fist.

It’s warm in Dream’s room because his bed is placed next to a radiator for some unknown reason, and because Dream can’t feel the heat like George can. And yet, it doesn’t stop them from intertwining together, winding tighter and tighter until their bodies blur and you begin to lose track of who’s who.

Who cares about body heat when the two of them are pressed against each other, so close and so personally. George, if it were up to him, would never move again in his life.

And it seems so surreal how quickly everything is resolved. The hurting and the anguish. What use is there for it now, though? They’re doing fine.

It’s been a vague amount of time, and somewhere along the line things have been talked out and boundaries set. 

“Do you ever want to leave, now?” Dream asks him, “Like do you ever want to go back to travelling. I’m afraid I’m keeping you cooped up in here.”

George shakes his head, and presses a feather light kiss to Dream’s jaw, “No. It wasn’t worth it last time.” He moves in closer and closer and he doesn’t need to go anywhere because this is home. And Dream’s home too. “Besides, if I ever feel some need to leave again, I’m sure we’ll find a solution. Have you ever wanted to go to France?” 

If George has learned anything, which he has now, it’s that perhaps the greats were cheated out of the experience of being with someone in the way that George and Dream are. He can see it reflected in the paints at the art gallery. George isn’t going to be cheated.

Dream laughs. It’s all George has ever actually needed.

They’ve always been here, though, really.

“We should head out later, though,” Dream tells George as he’s busy fussing with the ties on the hoodie George is wearing. “It’s a nice day, and I’m starting to think you haven’t actually seen the sun in weeks.”

George glances out their bedroom window.

The sky is this bright blue today, barely even a cloud staining it. 

Things are looking up.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading. comment if you liked it, please because it does wonders for my ego. 
> 
> listen to tea, milk & honey by oh pep! and read 'having a coke with you' by frank o'hara. it's mostly unrelated i just like them.
> 
> my tumblr is [didntstand](https://didntstand.tumblr.com) if you ever need to contact me
> 
> edit: thanks for all the attention this has gotten i had a playlist for writing this i could share but idk.


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